In Noctem
by Gasped
Summary: "I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents….." ― A birth shrouded in mystery, a world on the brink of self-destruction, a Hero called, a Villain anointed. Brothers by blood, enemies by name. Harry Potter may not be deemed to be the Chosen One, but never will he be the inferior of his brother, Charles. / HPDM WBWL
1. ― 01: A Peculiar Child ―

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. and various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books. No profit is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All rights reserved to original characters and spell craft © Gasped

**Warning:** Graphic (_possibly) _sexual scenes – both heterosexual and homosexual i.e. slash -, mentions of childhood neglect and abuse, major and minor character deaths, necromancy, mature adult themes – suicide, murder, rape, drug usage/abuse, violence, gore, dehumanization (creatures included), incest. There is a chance there will be other trigger warnings that will be added in sequential chapters, but this will be the most basic of warnings to keep in mind.

**Synopsis**: "I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents….." ― A birth shrouded in mystery, a world on the brink of self-destruction, a Hero called, a Villain anointed. Brothers by blood, enemies by name. Harry Potter may not be deemed to be the Chosen One, but never will he be the inferior of his brother, Charles.

**Note**: So I adopted this story from another Fan-Fiction author, Depraved (I recommend his work Pawn, it's rather impressive) after he had inquired as to whether or not I would want to take it over for him. Of course, I agreed readily. But while the first half of the chapter will derive from the original, there will be numerous changes added or removed. For the first part of this note, however, I would be tapping on the idea on how parents can be abuse or neglectful of their own children, especially seeing as Lily and James will be portrayed as such. Now, before your lose your heads, understand that child mistreatment is neither properly understood, or reasoned. It can occur in any family, religion, ethnicity or culture – it happens, and while the factors of it may be the result of drug abuse or else, we have to see that in the entire Harry Potter books, Petunia Dursley had subjected her nephew to neglect, and there was even implied physical abuse by the hands of Vernon Dursley and Dudley. Why – because they could, because of Petunia's continued hatred of her sister, and due to the fact Harry had intruded on their normal life. So why can the same not be applied to Lily and James Potter? Yes, they had willingly died for their son, but with the bare minimal character personality we have on James and Lily who is to say that they would not have become abusive parents had they lived? James Potter was an arrogant, spoiled and narcissist who took pleasure in tormenting others; Lily is no better in spite of her "compassionate" nature. She could not even forgive her first friend, a boy we can guess she knew was being abused and bullied, because he had grown angry with the boy who was batting for her affection. Lily is not a saint. So it is conceivable that they _could_ be neglectful parents, especially if one child was peculiar and the other all they favored and dreamed of.

Which brings me to the subject of Harry. Harry has more capability to love and forgive then anyone ever could, he's humble and overall a better person then Lily and James could ever be – and it irks me to no end how everyone always sees him as the boy-who-lived or James and Lily. Harry is Harry, which is why Harry will not look like his parents. I want Harry to be an independent character, someone who can stand on his own and be recognized as such. But Harry will not be completely human, nor will he be a monster; he will still be forgiving, but learning to love will be a challenge for him. You have to understand (you will) that he does not have a happy childhood in this story. He had been pushed to the side far too many times, ignored and seen as inferior. He will be powerful, but fragile. Cunning, but not cruel.

As for future pairings, that will be discussed at another time. Until then, thank you for reading this note and I hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

><p>[…..] Him the Almighty Power<p>

Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky

With hideous ruin and combustion down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat.

To be weak is miserable,

Doing or suffering_. Lines 157-158_.

And out of good still to find means of evil. […] Here at least

we shall be free; the Almighty hath not built

Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

Here we may reign secure, and in my choice

to reign is worth ambition though in Hell:

**Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven** _Lines 258-63._

― John Milton, _Paradise Lost (1667-1674) _ **BOOK I **

* * *

><p>― <strong>01: A Peculiar Child ―<strong>

In the silence each breath that spilled from her parched lips resonated dully, a hollow sound that went unnoticed by the slumbering woman. Mercury eyes, drenched in tears she could not bring herself to shed, stared mournfully at the gasping child in her arms. He was so small, so fragile and beautiful. She pressed her blooded fingers against the blue cheek, lips crawling into a weak, bitter smile as she pulled him closer to her bosom. She never wanted to part from him, but the burn of unfairness that swelled in her chest would not see to it. All that she had done, all wrong that she had committed that been in the name of this sweet child in her arms – a child the Ministry would see to die before his time. She would not allow it. She would never allow such an atrocity to befall on her sweet child for he was the innocent.

Bringing her lips to his blue forehead, she swiped her thumb over the black curls plastered onto his forehead. "Be strong, my son," she breathed against his cheek, eyes falling shut and cold tears rolling down her cheeks. "Be strong. Be great. _Be dark_."

Gently, she places him into the desolate basinet settled beside the bed and turned her attention onto the oblivious woman before her. For days after the decree had been set forth she had been searching for the one who would bear her child, to birth him into the world and do for him what she no longer could. Wiping the lone tear from her eye, she set forward, wand banished and with a flick cast away the duvet that covered the pregnant woman's body. She remained asleep, terribly unaware to what would transpire. Softly she began to speak the incantation, the ancient words spilling from her lips, and the air polluting with the vile essence of Magic most dark. The sleeping woman gave a groan, brows furrowing as her body became aware of an unusual pain prickling at the base of her engorged stomach. Mercury eyes narrowed, lips whispering the enchantment faster, desperately, and finally, _finally_, the woman's womb opened itself to her. The fetus within, approximately the same stage of development as that of her son, was of no importance to her; she could of easily slayed it, torn it from its mother's protective womb and placed her own child within, but no – no that would make her no better than the beast who hunted for her.

Taking her shivering child into her arms, she kissed his forehead in parting and laid him into the woman's womb. The other fetus took no notice of her son's presence, and with an unsteady exhale she began to reserve the incantation, healing the woman. With a softness she never conceived to show another, she placed the duvet over the grimacing woman once more, her fingers idly moving through the tresses of crimson hair. "Should my son die," she murmured into the slumbering woman's ear. "So shall yours. A life for a life, a son for a son. Protect him. Love him."

With a parting glance to the woman, and a heavy pang of loss in her heart, she cleaned the room of her presences and vanished with the shadows once more. Outside of the cottage home, the charm that obscured it from view crackled at the proximity of her presence. Glancing once more at the home, she fought the clawing desire to return her child to her arms once more, to hold him and never allow him to be without her. But she couldn't. Her heart broken, and her soul begging to weep and scream, she set to finishing what she had begun.

She manifested to the sea and just as she had swaddled as stone into her cloak, holding it to her bosom, she felt _their _presence behind her. She didn't turn to face them, not right away for surely her temper would rise and her carefully constructed control will crumble. Slowly she turned to face them, face bleaching of color for even now she feared them; they who did not live, but walked amongst the living. They watched her, faces hidden beneath tattered hoods.

"_Punishment…for your crime...bring the child…_" they rasped, bone white fingers reaching towards the bundle in her arms. She dropped it into the mass of seeking hands, and in spite of all she felt a sense of satisfaction as they hissed in anger. _"You will be punished…punished for Breach of Law…Abomination…Must be killed…" _

"He will live," she proclaimed, silencing them. "He will live and when he reaches maturity you shall all perish."

"_You will be punished…Treason…" _They swarmed her, torn cloaks billowing around her as their arms grabbed onto her limbs and throat. She gasped, screamed, and swore upon her blood to lay waste to the fiends of darkness as they returned her to face the self-proclaimed sovereigns of the world of magic.

**[….]**

_July 31, 1980 _

All the fear, the uncertainty and echoes of warning of darker days to come could not wither away the joy Lily Potter felt when she laid eyes upon her second born son. She had all but attacked but Mid-Witch when the woman had tried to take her son away for a detailed examination, and now as she counted ten toes and fingers, tears streamed down her cheeks. She was exhausted, her body ached, but never before had she felt weightless wonder and awe; such happiness and completion. Running her finger through the tuff of red hair, she pressed a kiss to damp forehead and reluctantly handed him over to the Mid-Witch to be cleaned and accepted her first born. His skin, to her utter horror, was cold and alabaster white. As she placed her hands against his freezing check, panic mounted in her chest; but it was not panic for the child she held.

_The fire burned, an inferno that consumed the house…she was screaming…her sister screamed, crying out something incoherent, and she could only watch…watch as the house burned…_

"Madam!" the Mid-Witch screamed, catching the child Lily had all but thrown from her arms. Shuddering and cowering back against the headboard of the hospital bed, the wide eyed woman stared at the infant in the Mid-Witch's arms with terror. The woman herself, as those she too was relieving a nightmare, quickly relieved herself of the whimpering child.

"What – what is wrong with him?" Lily breathed out, shivering still and rubbing her arms to bring warmth back into her too-cold body.

The Mid-Witch, bleached of all color, stared at the squirming infant in the basinet. It flung its limbs out, crying weakly through shuddering gasp of breath. She knew, of course, that she should see to the child; to make sure all was right with it, but fear imprisoned her. "I – I am not sure, Madam," she murmured, turning away from the child that cried out to be held and comforted. "Here," she said, quickly returning to squirming red-haired infant to its mother.

Lily, clutching her youngest son as though her arms alone would protect him from the dangers of the world, stared warily at the child in the basinet. Her heart, though it sought to comfort her whimpering son could not compare to the unease and bile of fear that rose in her throat. She held on tighter to her son, ignorant to the noise of discomfort the infant made. The second Mid-Witch, eyes narrowed, made a noise of disgust as she swept the eldest child into her arms. Both women watched as she cooed down at the babe, whispering words that meant not to the two other women for she spoke in a different language, and silencing the wailing.

Her heart panged in unhappiness, distressed that it was not her who had comforted her other son. But she could not touch him. She did not want to remember. She buried her face into the mane of red hair. There was silence in the room, neither of the women speaking, but all turning towards the door when it opened. A grinning James Potter greeted them jubilantly as he made his way to his wife's bedside and – after kissing her passionately – commenced kissing their youngest son's fist.

"What shall we name them, Lils?" asked James, his smile widening as his son blinked up at him with watery hazel eyes. "You can pick seeing as you went through the whole trouble of pushing them out and whatnot."

Lily snorted, the coloring of her skin returning and a tentative smile on her lips. "We can name him" – she indicated toward the child in her arms – "Charles, after your father, Sirius Potter."

James gave a bark of laughter, starling their youngest son who stared at them with comically wide eyes and a grimace. "Charles Sirius Potter – Padfoot's going to have a field day when he hears this," he said, chuckling softly before nodding his head towards their eldest whom remained cradled in the dark-haired woman's arms. "And him?"

"Uhh," Lily made to raise a shoulder, but was stopped when the dark eyes of the Mid-Witch fixed onto her face.

"If I am, Madam," the woman began, accent heavy. "May I suggest a name?"

James and Lily shared a look, and at the shrug of indifference from her husband, Lily nodded.

"Heinrich," the announced, a slight smile curling her thin lips. "It is a strong name in German."

Lily blinked, then glanced warily at the slumbering child the dark-haired woman held. "Heinrich it is then. Heinrich James Potter."

As the couple returned to lavishing their attention onto their youngest child, the Mid-Witch turned away from them and smiled down at the child. Her fingers skimmed over the mess of jet black curls, rousing the infant slightly before he succumbed to slumber once more. His skin was frost, even with the presence of a warming charm and thick knitted blanket. And, as she held him close to her, rocking him occasionally, she looked back at the pride-filled couple and knew without it being said that the child in her arms would be forever misunderstand, pushed away for a strangeness his parents would never comprehend.

"Be strong," she whispered into his ear as she laid him to rest. "Be strong and take this world by storm."

**[….]**

_October 31, 1981 _

His gaze was unnerving, Dorea Potter mused as she took a reflexive sip of the empty cup in her hands. Before her, standing on unsteady legs and small hands wrapped around the trailing of the white crib he occupied, was her eldest grandson. Heinrich, or Harry as immediate family and acquaintances had taken to calling the young boy due to complaint by the father, her son, that it was too _weird_, had not ceased staring at her from the moment she had set foot into the nursery.

Scoffing slightly, Dorea placed the fragile cup onto the table residing beside the rocking chair, and gazed thoughtfully at her grandson. In the earlier months after the birth of both boys she had not been able to bring herself to see them. Crippled by the grief of losing her beloved husband, Charlus, only weeks earlier, she had wept in woe at the fact that he would never be there for her, nor would he ever see his grandchildren. It was only due to the pleading insistence from her son and daughter-in-law that she finally pulled herself together and agreed to watch both children while the pair were otherwise occupied with their vigilantly group.

Just thinking about what was transpiring at the wretched meeting warranted another scoff from Dorea. Clasping her hands into her lap, she sighed and tore her eyes away from the child who continued to watch her in favor of staring out the window. The weak rays of moonlight that pushed through the throng of marble grey clouds filtered onto the wooden floor. So tired was she, horribly and emotionally so that she took no notice of the wavering brush of magic. It was only when Charles roused with a distressed cry that she rose to her feet and took the wailing babe into her arms.

"There, there my sweet," she said as she bounced her grandchild and paced before the twin cribs. Heinrich, who watched her with a detached air, caught her attention once more. Her mouth dropped, whether in surprise or terror, it would not be known for the door of the nursery blasted open, startling both her and the child she held. Quickly depositing Charles into Heinrich's crib, she spun to face the intruder, wand raised.

The man, adorned in a heavy cloak that concealed his features, raised his arm. Spidery white fingers appeared from the folds of the sleeve, aligning the wand in his grasp at Dorea. The fright she felt, the uncertainty that brought a stutters to her heart, kept her secured in her place before the crib. She could not move; she _would_ not move. Never would she be able to forgive herself if she selfishly allowed innocent children to die so that she may survive – for, even without the cloaked figure speaking or moving, she knew that she would die. How bittersweet.

"Stand aside," came the hissed warning. "You need not die for them."

"Blood calls to blood, be it may I die, but they will live," Dorea declared before firing a curse at the man.

He deflected with a flick of his wand. "So be it. _Avada Kedavra_!"

The sickening light washed the room with its color, suspended it in green before retreating and with it crumbled the shell of Dorea. Her eyes stared forward, unseeing, as Charles broke into another wail. The man grimaced for he could never stomach the whining of children. Casting a silencing charm on the screeching child, he stepped over the corpse of the fallen woman and, upon his inspection of the children, snarled at the presence of something formidable, something _dark _and _cold _and brought memories of the childhood he detested. Green eyes, unnaturally bright, gazed into his form, trying to see beyond the hood of his cloak. And he watched, transfixed as frost edged outward, encasing the cribs body in ice. Lower it spread, a glistening sheen along the floor. He recoiled, stepping away from the crib.

"_Unnatural_," he hissed out, fingers gripping his wand tighter as he leveled it toward the child who continued to stare at him. "_Die. Avada Kedavra!" _

The spell rushed forward, touched the child. The babe screamed, and so did he when it reared and bared its claws at him. And he was ripped, torn from flesh and bone till he became no more than a shadow, a wrath. His magic loosened, became an animal of destruction. It tore wall and ceiling apart, sending splinters of large wood flying through the collapsing room as he fled into the night. Yet not all of him left that night, from where it remained, a shivering wisp of white, it knew that it could not survive; soon it would part from the world of the living. But it could sense the warmth of the living, a warmth it so desperately desired; it edged towards it, to the child who screamed, but was deterred by white hands. They enclosed around it, bringing it forth to the chest of the green eyed child. Cold, this body was cold, but it would do. It sank into the child's body, beneath the heart that echoed hollowly.

It would take an hour before help would come to the two children – a miracle many proclaimed that they had survived in spite of the roof that had succumbed into itself. Upon finding the corpse of his mother, buried beneath rubble and black wood, James Potter had wailed his grief as he clung to her. All the while Lily and fawned over the screaming son, Charles, neither caring to notice the presence of ice in the room as Albus Dumbledore presented himself to the couple.

In the years to come, the quiet babe, all but forgotten in his crib, would watch as the world inched away from him and his brother, his screaming little brother who had survived with only a jagged cut on his cheek, would become a hero and bask in the glory of that title.

**[….]**

_November 9, 1986 _

"Why do you hate me?"

She jerked at the quiet inquiry, as though burned. Warily her eyes settled on the child before her, and she shivered, thoughtlessly stepping away from him for being too close to him brought back memories; it made it cold. Smiling tightly, Lily Potter contemplated her words before she spoke them, trying to be gentle with them for she knew the heart of a child was a tender, fragile thing; so easily broken. But this child, _her _child, had always been different. From birth he had been like no other. Rarely did he cry, even more so was the incomprehensible cold air that followed him and clung to his skin. To touch him was to be cold for minutes, as though plunged in ice water and suffocated by the darkness of nightmares. Even years after the attack that ill-fated October night, he behaved like no child; should he fall and scrap his knees, he did not cry, he did not even appear fazed. He did not smile, laugh, or show emotion. It was unsettling.

She never liked being alone with him.

"I do not hate you, Heinrich," she said softy. "I would never hate you."

"Then why will you not hug me like you do Charles?" He asked, and had there been hurt in his voice and words, Lily would have taken him into her arms, just to prove that she cared for him, that she did not fear him completely. But her heart and mind spoke different; because she was afraid. She _was_ terrified of what he made her seen when she touched him.

"I – "she began, then paused for she didn't know how to tell her own child that she could not touch him for his presence left her shattered, scared and weak; helpless to do anything. When she failed to say anything, he inclined his head in parting and turned to leave. Just as quietly as he had snuck up on her, he left just as well. Relief filled her lungs, warmth returned to the room, and guilt struck her heart all at once. Leaning back against the counter, Lily racked her fingers through her hair, torn between the echoing feelings of disgust and acceptance to how she treats her son.

Shaking her head to clear it – she never did enjoy dwelling on thoughts of him for too long – Lily silently sipped her lukewarm tea, eyes moving from the Witch Weekly magazine before her towards the scene outside of the kitchen window. She caught brief sightings of her young son, Charles, flying in and out of view of the practice broom he had received five months before. James was not far off from sight, she mused, as she set her cup down and stood to her feet.

"What are you two up to now?" She asked, voice full of fondness and laughter as her husband and son turned to her with equally mischievous grins upon their faces.

"Dads teaching me some moves," Charles chirped, chest puffing with pride as he came to a stop before his parents, practice broom in hand. "He says I'm gonna be the youngest Seeker ever!"

As she burst into fits of laughter along with her husband, Lily listened to the pair as they charted out their practice schedule and plans for the future Qudditch star. Unbeknownst to them, they were being watched by their other son. His face betrayed no emotion, just as his eyes gave no inclination to the thoughts that roamed through his head. He spared them a few more minutes of staring before turning on his heel and returning to his bedroom.

To anyone else who entered his bedroom – though it had been years since anyone did – they would immediately had taken notice of the below zero temperature of the room. And indeed it was so cold in the boy's bedroom that one could see cracks of ice along the glass of the window, and their own breath before them. Seating himself on the center of his bed, Heinrich stared at the vanity mirror on the opposite wall before him in contemplation. The boy in the mirror was slender, appearing even smaller in the black clothing he wore. Hair, a dark pigment of black that appeared blue, fell in deep waves around a face that had lost all childhood fatness, defining his high cheekbones and small, pointed chin. Yet of all his appearance it were the glowing, irises that gazed back at him that were the most notable.

Unnatural people called his eyes.

Yes, he supposed they were.

He looked away from the reflection, small fingers reaching for the leather bound tome beneath his pillow. It was just one of the many in scripters he kept within his room, none suitable for children; each perfect for him.

Such is the life in the Potter manor. Like estranged members of a family unwilling to embrace one another, Heinrich lived separate from his parents and sibling; and they, in turn, avoided the room at the end of the hall. And, predicted as it was by him and another, slowly, but surely the world ceased to regard his existence and he faded, faded until he may as well had died and departed from the world. But he was always there, always watching – watching _them_ act like a family, become shallow creatures adhered by fame and greed, and live by pretense – and just as he was easily forgotten, pushed away for being something _unnatural,_ the heart that barely sounded in his chest grew cold.

**[….]**

_October 31, 1988 _

The streets before him were narrow, cobbled stone that twisted and turned out and sight and were surrounded by buildings compressed closely together. There were wand and robe shops, shops that sold cauldrons, telescopes and strange instruments costumed for Astronomy and Divination. Free spaces, or what was not otherwise occupied, were filled with makeshift stalls; tabletops bending under the weight of the items piled onto them. It was quite easily presumed that anything, and everything, could be found within Diagon Alley, if one knew where to look; yet the wonder that had once surrounded the place was not present.

Squeezed between and apothecary shop and a second-hand robe store was the smoking ruins of something, destroyed and prepared to crumble. Further down alley a reconstruction work was underway, workers wearing grim expressions reluctantly patching together a collapsed roof. The alley bore a tired look to it; wall and roofs slightly askew and wearily leaning one way or another. Everything appeared uncared for, worn and wretched.

And the very same air of resignation and depression was supported by the people running up and down the streets.

Every witch and wizard hid beneath dark, heavy, robes, their faces masked with raised hoods. They moved briskly onward, steps long and focused, eyes forward and unwavering. Though many did not show it, their movements spoke for them. They were terrified. Huddled together in herds like animals, desperate for the little protection friends and family could offer one another, they moved quickly, wanting to finish their business and get away just as urgently as they moved.

It was all amusing, but not worth his notice.

With a slight inclination to the man seated behind the counter, he placed his purchase in the black bag slung over his shoulder and exited the store. The street had emptied out, not completely, but enough for him to move without being hindered by impatient people. He, unlike the others, wore no cloak and moved leisurely, eyes scanning the displays of stores and makeshift stalls. Unconsciously, on their part, people shied away from the strange dark haired boy who walked around with cloak or robes to shield him from the cold of fall. And in turn he gave no heed to their hasty murmurs of "Strange" they threw his way. As he paused outside of an Apothecary shop, the woman who had been loitering before the window glanced his way. Heinrich, brow arched, spared her quick look before settling his focus on the potions kit before him.

"You should not be wandering alone, little boy," the woman tutted him, a note of amusement in her voice. Heinrich shifted his eyes onto her, and she returned his gaze unflinchingly. "Are you not afraid of the Death Eaters whom roam free?"

He shook his head.

"I see," she murmured and leveled herself to his height, frostbitten fingers gliding over his hair momentarily. "Care to have a bit of a bite with me?" She questions with a hum, a smile full of teeth that did not bring light of kindness to the too dark eyes. When he did not respond, she crouched to his height, fingers smoothing away the wayward curls from his neck. "You are very pretty."

Heinrich's brow tweaked upward once more. He had been called many things in his life – _strange, freak, abnormal_ – but never pretty. His head drooped to the side in acknowledgement of the compliment, but he spared no words. Her fingers continued to roam through his hair, her eyes piercing into his own, hungering for a reaction. He gave none.

With that she stood to her full height, black cloak spilling along the street. Her eyes, stark black that stood against her white skin, assessed him. His own eyes racked over her, as though she was a puzzle he could not quite understand. She smiled at him, softly, and grasped onto his hand, bringing it towards her heart.

"You are warm," she whispered, eyes pinned on his face. "You are warm, and you are good."

The evidence of his surprise came with a slight widening of his eyes. Releasing his hands, she placed a kiss to his brow, and vanished before him. Heinrich, staring at the spot where the strange woman once stood, brought his fingers to area her lips had grazed. It felt…warm, an unfamiliar heat that contrasted with the coolness of his skin. With a small frown, and dip to the corner of his mouth, Heinrich slipped into the disporting crowd once more. Entering through the sealed wall between Diagon Alley and the patron inn, the Leaky Cauldron, the boy moved with a grace incongruous with children his age, easily occurring the eyes of dwellers. They shyed away at his approach, skin crawling and a diseased light of fear and wary in their eyes. Tipid, the house-elf he had brought with him, squeaked when Heinrich loomed behind her, nearly dropping the parcels he had left in her care.

"Young master Heinrich's bes going home now?" questioned Tipid, nervous and jittery under the unblinking gaze. She all but leaped away from his impending touch, his hand suspended in the air. Tension licked the air still, silenced settled, occupants watched, waiting to see what will proceed. Tipid burst into tears, babbling her apologies, and was rendered into a sniffling form upon the dismissive wave of a hand by Heinrich. Taking a hold of her master's wrist, she Apparated from sight.

A mild look of discomfort crossed the inscrutable mask, passing just as Tipid rushed to the staircase to deposit Heinrich's supplies to his bedroom. For a moment he lingers in the archway, ears straining to hear the murmur of conversation from the living area. The voices were hushed, low, but he knew one above the rest: Albus Dumbledore. Mentioning, or even thinking, of the man left a dour taste to his mouth. He cannot express the _dislike_ he felt the elder, but he also did not look to him in a favorable light. Had it not been for him, for his involvement that night, surely his parents would not have thrown away what little affection they held for him – Heinrich blinked, straightened his unconsciously slouched posture, and glided up the stairs to his bedroom. On the second floor he could hear the voices of other children, whispering amongst themselves from behind the closed door of his younger sibling.

As he crossed by the door opened ajar, the head of a little redheaded girl darting out. Her eyes, a wide brown, pinned onto his person. Heinrich slid a glance to her, inclined his head, and continued onward, leaving a flushed girl in his wake. Briefly he heard her request of "Who was that?" but not the answer itself as he had returned to his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him. Enclosing him the privacy he had created for his person only. He dropped onto the edge of his bed, extracting the leather bound textbooks from within the parcels. The titles, glaringly similar to the next, brought a touch of a smile to his lips. Had his family treaded into his room, even once, surely they would have taken notice of the shelved books of material deemed dark. Tapping an index finger to the face of the tome minutely, Heinrich never looked away from the silver lettering before him at the intrusive _pop _of a house-elf. Tipid, being the only one whom could withstand his presence, brought his meals accordingly and took them away.

To another it would have been a lonely, horribly desolate existence; to someone who had grown with those around him edging from him, it was no longer something to mull over. Sad, but not worth the time of day to depress over.

**[….]**

_September 1, 1991 _

The platform was a scattering of noise, varying between animal and human. Air thick with smoke blurred features of those feet from where he stood, their words lost in the din of the whistling horn of the scarlet engine. To his immediate left, a good distance away, stood his family. They had been swarmed by enthusiast, devices flashing with light as they captured the beaming couple and haughty boy between them. Heinrich, fingers tapping his thigh, irritably, crooked a finger to the black trunk beside him. It rose inches from the cobbled ground, trailing behind as he boarded the steam engine. The third carriage cart of the train, more secluded from the main population of returning and new students, fit his nurtured nature of isolation. Claiming the last compartment for himself, Heinrich deposited the trunk to the rack overhead, sat down, and spared a glance to the platform outside.

After a few minutes, he found it frivolous to watch others, dropped his hand and eye over the impression of a bracelet beneath the cuff of his button down shirt. Pale fingers tugged the hem downward slightly, revealing glittering silver. Thicker than his pinkie, the jewelry was laced with rune markings of a language not even he could find mentions of in textbooks. It was pretty, and useful, as he had discovered upon opening the package sent to him two years before. It had been arrived by raven, a black giant of a bird that bore a collar reading Corvus – he had found that strange, to name a raven Crow. But the letter itself, simply signed by one Anja, had merely stated that this would help contain his _special _gift. Heinrich had been, rightly, dubious, but wore it nonetheless and approached his mother to test it.

It had worked, to his immediate surprise, but while his mother did not cower from the very sight of him, she had dismissed him without a desire to ask as to what he could have wanted from her. For a moment, it had hurt, just a small bit, enough to bring an all too familiar pinch in his chest.

Pulling the cuff over the bracelet, Heinrich closed his eyes, his breathing evening out. Though not muted, only too far to be properly heard, the falls of approaching footsteps stirred him from his slumber. It was novelty for him to rest in public- to rest in general without the need to silence and lock the surrounding area. His eyes opened, long, heavy lashes hooding over his irises as the door to the compartment slid open. Outside stood his brother, much to his dismay, and the youngest Weasley boy, Ronald. To Charles right was a tall, willowy girl with brown hair and eyes. Her eyes roamed over him, a smile playing at her lips.

Heinrich, incurious, perked a brow and asked. "Are you in need of something, brother?"

Charles, having not grown much in the past few years, remained a short, round child with unruly dark auburn hair that defied gravity at every turn. The boy, Ronald, was a different matter. His body, having grown too tall too fast, left him standing awkwardly, unaccustomed with large hands and a smattering of freckles over his tanned face. It was Charles who spoke first, promptly barging into the compartment and dropping into the sit across from Heinrich. "No, I just wanted to sit with you – Ron, Lavender, come sit too."

Heinrich, suspicious, merely give a short nod and closed his eyes once more. He could not begin to fathom as to why his younger brother would take interest in being anywhere around him after years of evading him as though he was the black plague. For a second, Heinrich conceived the thought that his parents were behind this act – an assumption that proved itself to be truth when Charles rushed through his next words.

"Dad said he'll be disappoint in you if you're not in Gryffindor!" the boy cried out, trying to maintain an air of confidence despite twitching in his seat, restless and uncomfortable.

"A pity then," Heinrich said.

Charles, off-putted by the indifference, scowled and turned to his friends. Ron, who had been staring at Heinrich as though devil horns would sprout from the crown of black curls, glared and shared a look with Charles. The two boys then looked to Lavender, openly grimacing at the too interested glean in her eyes. Charles rose to his feet, glaring at his elder brother, and snapped the door open with more force than needed.

"Come on guys," he snarled out, and both quickly came to their feet, marching after their disgruntled friend.

With a flick of his wrist, the door closed once more, sealing Heinrich away from others. He opened his eyes, a touch of contemplation drawing his brows together before his facial expression lost all inclinations of his thoughts or feelings. Blank.

The remaining journey to Hogwarts was spent in silence, most of it which Heinrich slept through. When they disembarked onto the station, all first years were herded into a group by the half-giant his parents associated with, Rubeus Hagrid, he believed. Marching the damp earth trail to the docking area where several small wooden boats bobbed in the water, Heinrich was joined by a boy, a sniveling little thing with brown hair and eyes, a girl with bushy hair and a mouth that endlessly spewed facts about the school, and a dark skinned boy whom met his eye several times. This boy, with his cool, subdued aura, Heinrich found to be tolerable. While the girl prattled on, and the other boy whimpered "Trevor" numerous times over, Heinrich considered the Sorting Ceremony. He, of course, knew all about due to the many times James Potter had told of his own years at Hogwarts – but also as to what he would do should he be placed anywhere but Gryffindor. As Charles had implied, James would be _highly_ disappointed in him should he end up anywhere else – not that Heinrich ever cared for the whims of opinions of James. The man was a bigot in all sense, and Lily a sheep that followed his example.

So lost in his thoughts he was that Heinrich was the last to step off the boat. The dark-skinned boy, falling to his right, quirked a brow at him at the relieved cry from the other boy they had shared a boat with. Pathetic. Up the stone steps they went, emerging from beneath the castle onto a ground that they crossed towards the imposing, double doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Heinrich, though he did not show it, was in awe. Lights rebounded from the windows, towers erecting from the main building to reach into the heavens. The small, distant hum of wards was noticeable, but none other seemed to feel its presence.

They were soon welcomed into the entrance hall by a sharp, stern faced woman in emerald robes. Her black and pepper hair, drawn into a tight bun, gave her a more severe look, causing a bout of wariness to touch the already overly anxious children. As she explained the primary rules of Hogwarts, noted the four houses, and explained what shall commence in a few minutes, Heinrich narrowed his sight onto the bouncing figure ahead. His brother, laughing and chattering jovially, had the galls to attempt to trip another student as they were swept into the Great Hall. Those whom were seated in the four house tables whispered excitedly amongst themselves, pointing to Charles who appeared to be in the midst of making a spectacle of himself. Quickly enough the Sorting went underway, and as child after child was called forward, the closer the Potter surname drew the more palpable the eagerness of the masses were. It was disgusting, really, how these people fell over themselves to attain the favoritism of an eleven-year-old child. When the time came for Charles to go ahead, many craned their necks to glimpse at the faded pink scar marring left cheek. The battered hat, frayed and filthy, fell over the boys' head, concealing his eyes for a few minutes. To Heinrich it looked as if his brother was in the midst of a dire conversation with the animated object, but soon enough it announced, "GRYFFINDOR!" resulting in an uproar from the chosen house. Professor McGonagall allowed her house their minute of celebration before shooting them a look that rivaled that of a beast, silencing them and calling out, "Potter, Heinrich."

He had expected it, the silence, the confusion and whisper of conversation. It was not a publically known tidbit of information that James and Lily had a second son whom was the elder twin to their proclaimed savior. From what Heinrich had gathered in Daily Prophet articles and autobiographies regarding his family over the past decade, nothing of him was mentioned. He didn't precisely care one way or the other. Placing the hat onto his head, he waited for the low murmur of a voice within his ear.

"_You were expecting me, I see_," said the speaker, amusement evident. "_Now where to put you, I wonder – there is loyalty, but only to yourself, pity. A brilliant mind I see, maybe Ravenclaw? No, that will not do – your ambition and thirst for knowledge come from another source, something much deeper then out witting the rest. Gryffindor, then? You certainly bear the bravery, but they would not understand you – you are different and will forever remain so. Let your difference and strength guide you well in_ SLYTHERIN!"

The silence was deafening, neither living nor dead uttering a breath as the suave boy removed the hat from atop his head. Oh yes, they were shocked, that alone was written on the faces of all as the Potter heir seated himself beside a scrawny, rat looking boy who looked to him in displeasure. He was in hostile territory, that enough was revealed by the way the Slytherin's close to him scooted away. At the Gryffindor table, Heinrich could see the disdain and hatred written on his brother's face, turning it a violent shade of red that rivaled the Weasley broods. If he was not entirely bored of the reactions and displeased snarls shot his way, Heinrich would have smiled. Then again, he hadn't smiled in many years.

As the last of the sorting was finished, the black boy from earlier took the vacant space to Heinrich's right. "Blaise Zabini," he introduced, hand outstretched.

Heinrich stared at the hand for a moment, as if it being so close to him was offending, before giving a bare minimal of a nod and grasping onto the other boys hand. "Heinrich Potter," he greeted in return. The touch of skin, skin that was warm and soft, leaked the tension from his occupied hand.

"A pleasure, Potter," Blaise drawled, releasing Heinrich's hand and bringing his focus back onto the speech being given.

"Likewise," Heinrich said seconds later, a curious light entering the depthless jade irises that more often than not gave no signs of life. Blaise Zabini – what a peculiar child.


	2. ― 02: Disgrace ―

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. and various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books. No profit is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All rights reserved to original characters and spell craft © Gasped

**Warning:** Graphic (_possibly) _sexual scenes – both heterosexual and homosexual i.e. slash -, mentions of childhood neglect and abuse, major and minor character deaths, necromancy, mature adult themes – suicide, murder, rape, drug usage/abuse, violence, gore, dehumanization (creatures included), incest. There is a chance there will be other trigger warnings that will be added in sequential chapters, but this will be the most basic of warnings to keep in mind.

**Synopsis**: "I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents….." ― A birth shrouded in mystery, a world on the brink of self-destruction, a Hero called, a Villain anointed. Brothers by blood, enemies by name. Harry Potter may not be deemed to be the Chosen One, but never will he be the inferior of his brother, Charles.

**Note:** As I am sure you've all noticed Harry's name has been changed from Hadrian to Heinrich because, well, Hadrian is rather well used and you don't see many Heinrich's running around, now do you? Anyway a great many thanks to those who reviewed thus far – it made my day to see this story has caught your interest, and it is what propelled me to write the second chapter as quickly as I could. As for the question on whether or not Harry will eventually have a positive relationship with his family, only time will tell because they aren't the closest of family members and there is layers of resentment that Harry feels for them. Does that mean he'll never learn to forgive them? No, one day he will, but for now he has other things to occupy his time and worry. As I said we will discuss future pairings. Personally, when I had first planned this out, I was going to eventually have him ending up with Voldemort but that would be a conflict of interest. Then I had planned on Draco Malfoy, but that is still debatable. There was also a consideration for Lucius Malfoy as a minor side-pairing, Severus Snape, Blaise Zabini and even – my surprise – female characters for the first few years of his life. Ah, we'll see I suppose. Or I can put up a poll.

The ending to this chapter was rather dodgy. It didn't want to come out the right way, and really I didn't even want to input Quirrell into this chapter till near the end where he, you know, dies. But I couldn't resist Heinrich and Voldemort gambling with one another.

Anyway, to all new followers and readers I bid you a great thanks and hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p>[…] When a child first catches adults out<p>

—when it first walks into his grave little head that adults

do not have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise,

their thinking true, their sentences just—his world falls into panic desolation.

The gods are fallen and all safety gone.

And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little;

they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck.

It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine.

And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.

― John Steinbeck; _East of Eden_ (1952) pg. 19-20

* * *

><p>― <strong>02: Disgrace ― <strong>

In the dank, darkness of the dungeons time was nonexistent. To the newcomers of Hogwarts the short distance crossed from the lively warmth of entrance hall, down into the spiraling, jagged staircase of the dungeons was eerily. It was as if one crossed into a new dimension, one where shadows roamed freely, shadowed eyes locked onto turned backs, and quiet laughter echoed in desolate corridors. To one Severus Snape, however, his dungeons were his domain. Nibble fingers, long and thin, extracted the spleens of three frogs from jar located in his storage room, his thoughts absent from the present. Severus was, admittedly, deeply reluctant to admit that he had many preconceived notions as to what to expect from Charles Potter – expectations that had proven themselves to be true when he had caught sight of the carbon copy of James Potter that first night of the term. When the students had shown up that evening, and he had found himself sitting at the head table watching the first years being led in, single-file, by Minerva, he had not intentionally searched out the boy in the crowd, because he didn't give a damn about him. However, when his eyes happened to fall upon him, a sneer spread across his lips as he was greeted with the miniature James Potter, in every way possible. The messy dark hair and wire-framed spectacles; the same facial features; the same everything.

The boy had been clearly as arrogant as Severus had expected. Where his peers were gazing around the Great Hall in awe and amazement, Charles Potter had a smirk fixed onto his lips, his eyes alight with laughter as he struck a foot out to trip another student as they tried to step past him to be sorted. He was a bastard through and through. When his name was called, the hall broke into excited whispers, students craning their necks and leaning in various directions, attempting to get a look at the famous Boy-Who-Lived. Potter had strutted forward, head held high, not bothering to acknowledge those around him. As the hat grazed the crown of his head, Severus was not disappointed in his expectation of a quick sorting into Gryffindor. The brat had the nerve to bow to his rumbustious housemates, allowing a few to clap a hand on his shoulder.

Yet what came as a shock to all was when another Potter was called forward – even Severus could not conceal the confusion he felt. The boy who came forward, one whom he had not noticed before, stepped forward slowly, his eyes staring ahead. He was slightly tall for his age, and of slender build, with wild curls of hair so black that pooled around a face loss of childhood essence; the cheeks high and sharp, nose small and chin pointed. Dominate features of a patrician. His skin was pale, a smooth, alabaster complexion. Almond shaped, wide verdant green of every shade. Those eyes, those as bright and stunning as Lily's, were not hers.

This Potter, unlike the brat-who-lived-to-complicate-his-life, wore an expression that remained cleaned of all emotions as he sat on the stool. It took a moment for the hat to deliberate, and Severus expected the boy to end up in his father's house. He was surprised, however, when the hat called out _'Slytherin.'_

It was as if the world had shattered in that moment. There was a deafening silence in the hall, a few gasp of shock. Then there was applause. But only from the Slytherin table, and even there if was a certain portion. A number were curious, confused, or displeased. It was the rest of the house tables that looked almost stunned however. Not that a Potter had been sorted into Slytherin, but rather there was _another_ Potter to begin with. No one had heard or seen this boy before; his name was never mentioned in the documented history books depicting the defeat the Dark Lord; he had never been sighted before. It was as if he had never existed until this very moment.

The only person who seemed unfazed was Albus Dumbledore and Charles Potter.

Potter's sibling stood up with calm and grace, left the hat to a stunned Minerva, and strode just as calmly to the still applauding Slytherin table. He'd sat down to the right of the Bloody Baron, the residential ghost of Slytherin, and most feared of all the undead. Potter's sibling spoke very little, ate very little, and sat with a vacant look in his eyes.

It infuriated Severus.

James Potter's son, _well one_ of his son's, was in _his_ house. It left him in a corner, of sorts. Some are bound to think, especially those whom are aware of the history between him and the Potter Sr., that he would abuse having such power over the second Potter boy, but in spite of this blunder on his expectations Severus took his duties as Head of House seriously. When a child came to his house they become his responsibility for the next ten months. He did not coddle them, but he cared for them, he invested time into them. But, in all truth, the last thing Severus wanted to do was invest anything in Heinrich Potter.

Severus's face adopted a sour expression as he contemplated this new situation. He couldn't very well torment the Slytherin Potter in the same manner he had intended to do with the latter – docking house points, humiliation ― for it would not do well for him because he was known to show favoritism to his own house (just like the others.) He was at a standstill – and if there were anything Severus hated outside of James Potter and his continued existence, it was not being in control.

Glancing at the simmering cauldron on his desk, Severus continued contemplation of this new situation. Within a short hours' time he would have first year Slytherin and Gryffindor, and that alone was a catastrophe in the making. Very many students came to him with an appreciation to the fine art of potions, and even fewer bore the hand to handle the delicate ingredients and steps necessary. . . That itself posed a problem, along with the mere fact alone the hostility that was bred within Gryffindor and Slytherin students on their first night. Severus would change their minds, that he himself swore to upon receiving his Mastery in Potions, but – whilst he had originally planned to take joy in tormenting Charles Potter and any who would flank the boy due to his title, Heinrich Potter put him in a difficult place. Of course he _could_ make Heinrich Potter suffer just as equally without necessarily taking points from his own house, but as prior mentioned he cared for the students in his house.

Shaking his head to clear it and the absurdity that was a Potter in Slytherin, he set to finishing the Boil Cure potion without a final thought to the likes of Heinrich or Charles Potter. For now, anyway.

**[. . . .]**

_September 2, 1991 _

He could not quite place what it was that had awoken him from the semi-conscious state of slumber. Though, he supposed, it mattered not for he had already drawn himself upright. The mattress, a great difference to the stiff board of a bed he slept in at home, dipped beneath with each movement of his body. From behind the curtained darkness of his bed, Heinrich could hear the others he shared the dorm with rousing from their beds as well. For a moment Heinrich made no immediate move to join them in morning preparations, choosing instead to listen to their murmured conversation. He blinked, lips twisting into a dour line for _he_ was the topic of choice that morning. No matter. They had, subtly, expressed their curiosity the night before when they had first entered the dormitory after the Welcome Feast. They (this being Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Theodore Nott) had made no indication of wanting to speak or introduce themselves to him, and in the same sense Heinrich made no move to fall into their game.

Reaching beneath his pillow for his wand he – with a slight flick of the wrist – split open the curtains of his bed. The light from the light gas lamps, a fluorescent green, washed over his bed. All together ignoring the openly hostile stares thrown to his turned back, Heinrich prepared for the day with a mechanically learned routine. As he showered, dried and dressed, his thoughts wandered away from the present. By now James and Lily are sure to have received an irate and letter of complaint from Charles. It didn't bother him, the opinion of his parents, but he would rather not begin the term with the _disapproval_ of his parents in the recesses of his mind.

Adorning his morning robes, a shadow of a frown settled over Heinrich's brow as the eyes burrowing holes into his back became too consistent for him to ignore. Without a pause to his leisure movements, he turned to face his dormitory mates. It was Draco Malfoy, a pale boy with a sharp features, glacial eyes and sleeked back platinum hair whom spoke first. "Heinrich Potter," sneered Malfoy with a biting edge of amusement. "My, this _is_ a surprise. A Potter in Slytherin. Mummy and Daddy must be so _ashamed _of you."

Heinrich gave no visible reaction to the blondes' words, internally however he was once again found himself considering the retaliation that would inevitably befall on him for being sorted in the very house fabled to create dark wizards and scorned by his parents. "You are free to ask them yourself, Malfoy, if you are so interested on whether they are ashamed or not," he retorts.

A faint, pink spot rose in Malfoy's cheeks. "As if I would fall so low to talk to those mudblood loving fools," he snarled, eyes narrowed.

"Then why are you talking to the son of those mudblood loving fools?" questioned Heinrich.

"To give you a warning, Potter. You should have gone to Gryffindor like that worthless brother of yours. A halfblood like you – someone who never existed until you made the mistake of being sorted into here will never survive in Slytherin." With a mocking smile of pity, the scion of Malfoy exits the dormitory, Crabbe, Goyle and Nott falling into place behind them.

Heinrich watched the door close behind Nott with a sharp snap, a sound that echoed in the silence of the dorm till Blaise Zabini, who had been in the process of gathering the necessary textbooks for that day spoke out. "You know he is right, Potter," he drawled, drawing Heinrich's focus onto him. "Essentially, no one knew you existed until last night. We had, of course, heard rumors that the Boy Who Lived had a sibling; not only a sibling but a twin brother."

"You are implying I am to blame for no one knowing of my existence?' asked Heinrich.

"Of course," said Blaise matter-of-factly. "I assume being the brother to the Boy Who Lived can come with consequences, such as a shadow. Eleven years and not once has your name been mentioned. No one has read about you, or seen you – do you not find it strange that the only time you became notable was when you did something different then the Boy Who Failed to Die?" Zabini, lips pressed together and slanted eyes unwavering from Heinrich's face, slung his bag over a shoulder. "Malfoy wasn't wrong when he said you won't survive in Slytherin."

One hand twitched to his side, the other gripping the handle of his wand. Who was this boy to blame him for the inconsiderate, the blatant disregard that was thrown his way? His being not noted in any of the tomes that had been written about the fall of the Dark Lord and his family was no fault of his own. Still – still these people assumed that _he_ would not survive in a house full of snakes?

"And that is where you all are mistaken," Heinrich said. "It is Slytherin that will not survive my being here."

**[. . . .]**

True to his presumption five' past seven o'clock that morning as Heinrich was skimming through the _Daily Prophet_ and nursing a cup of lukewarm tea, that mornings owl mail was distributed. He had scarcely looked up from the article on Ministry Magical Creature Regulations when the irate hoot of a familiar owl drew his eyes upward. Holly, the family owl, gazed at him with a leg held out impatiently. Carefully relieving her of the rolled parchment tied to her leg, Heinrich settled his eyes over the Gryffindor table where his brother was watching him with a grin. Heinrich offered him a frigid look and unrolled the parchment. It read:

_Harry,_

_Your Mother and I are deeply unhappy with you being sorted in Slytherin. _

_If you have any sense left in you, boy, you will go to Headmaster Dumbledore _

_and request to be resorted this instance. We always knew there was something_

_odd about you but is by far the worst and most disgraceful thing you have ever done_

_to this family. You've disappointed us, greatly, Harry._

_James. _

Heinrich once more became engorged in his own thought, his mind nipping at the words of his father as he set the parchment ablaze with the tip of his wand. With his assumption proven correct, and James's disapproval shown as clear as day, Heinrich began to wander what exactly what this year would entitle. He was not – would not under any means – resort himself. That alone was an admission of failure, and knowing the brood that surrounded him they would both relish his leaving and taunt him. No. He would stand his ground and he would break this system of children's play for power.

Unbeknownst to him many of the students who were within close rang of him began to inch away, their carefully constructed mask of detachment cracking at the seam. Something, something polluted with a magic that is fouler then any ever whispered of, thrummed around the dark-haired boy whose eyes remained open, unblinking and unseeing. For a moment all chatter ceased, bodies tense and eyes swerving to see where (_whom) _was the cause of the eerie cold that leaked into the once bright Great Hall.

It was only when Heinrich released a visibly withheld breath and pushed away his plate of uneaten breakfast that the air warmed once more. Students, some shivering, looked to one another in obvious confusion; confliction as to what occurred and many bearing expressions of fear. At the Head table the professors glanced to one another, a silent exchange of inquiries before each shook their head. It would be a few minutes before the atmosphere from earlier settled over the draft of cold and fear, students laughing weakly and teasing those who had been gripped by fright.

Folding the _Prophet_, Heinrich brought his tea cup to his lips, eyes hooded and dark. Before him, silently seething and ignoring the concerns of his friends was Charles. The auburn haired boy looked livid, outraged even that Heinrich had remained unresponsive; had made no move to do as suggested. When his lips spread into a wide grin full of teeth, the Gryffindor stilled. Heinrich did not smile, he did not grin; but this one was a predator bearing its teeth. Lowering his cup and fixing his features into that of aloofness, the sable-haired Slytherin looked up to find a square sheet of parchment paper being held close to his face. The Prefect, a fifth year by the name of Lysander Law, arched a brow at Heinrich, a secretive smile playing the pink lips. Heinrich accepted the timetable, reviewing it as the blonde Slytherin moved onward.

That days schedule was nothing strenuous, bland even. Potions with Gryffindor, History of Magic with Ravenclaw, Charms with Gryffindor, Lunch, Herbology with Hufflepuff, and ending with Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindors once more. Tucking away the schedule, he rose fluidly to his feet, trailing languidly after a trio of Slytherin girls.

Potions, Heinrich guessed, was sure to be an interesting affair. For much of his life Heinrich was raised around the loathing James held for the residential Potions Master, Severus Snape. Dark, slimy bastards, to be precise, was what he entitled Heinrich's new Head of House. He entered the Potions classroom ten minutes before it was due to begin, and just as he had taken a sit near the back of the classroom, his eyes met with that of Severus Snape. The man, though not outwardly showing it, appeared just as interested in Heinrich as the boy was curious of him. He was an, though not quite, imposing figure. Tall with black hair that curtained a sallow, pale face. His nose was long and curved near the end, and eyes the deepest black. Heinrich, without any form of subtly, tore away his gaze from Snape to extract his course book, parchment, quill and ink.

In the span of the next few minutes the remaining Slytherin's entered the Potions classroom, talking quietly amongst themselves, followed by the Gryffindors. They, laughing, joking and overall sounding too _excited_ over something took to the tables opposite of the Slytherin's. Amongst the group Heinrich pinpointed his own brother who was discussing Quidditch with Weasley, that girl (Lavender, if he recalled correctly) who had accompanied them gossiping with two others whilst Neville Longbottom trailed behind the bushy haired girl. She, unlike the others, was quiet and Heinrich raised a brow at the evidence of fitful sleep and crying on her face. She sat by herself upfront, and distinctively he got the impression that she had already been annexed by her housemates. What a pity.

"Silence," called Snape, his voice quiet yet hushed, deadly quiet immediately fell over the students. The smallest of movements and sounds were amplified. Roll calls proceeded, each name spoken with deliberate slowness that one might think Snape was bored had it not been for the calculated, intelligent gaze that befell on each child he called upon. He paused when reaching Charles's name.

"Ah yes," he said softly, "Charles Potter. Our new _– celebrity._"

Charles, whether out of boldness or arrogance, raised his chin a fraction higher and stared at Snape daringly. Snape, much to Heinrich's amusement, brushed away Charles's expression as worthless and continued. Upon finishing he spoke, voice still barely above that of a whisper yet still all hung to his words. "You are here to learn the subtle science and art of portions making. There is will be no foolish wand waving. Many of you" – his eyes linger on the Gryffindors – "will not believe this to be magic. Should you possess the _ability_ to manipulate this delicate form of magic I will teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, and put a stopper on death." Snape finished with a low hiss.

Heinrich, amongst many others of his peers, were enthralled but he more than others. All that was mentioned fascinated him for who would not be enthralled by the prospect of create fame, glory and ending _(creating)_ death. His eyes burned with a fire, an inferno that did not go unnoticed by Snape and Zabini.

"Charles Potter," said Snape suddenly, causing Charles to snap his eyes onto Snape with a sour look to his eyes and a frown. "What do I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Charles's face scrunched with concentration, his eyes glancing with a helpless light to Weasley who shrugged. It was the only bushy-haired girl who cared to raise her hand, even a quarter into the air. No longer able to stall the inevitable, Charles shrugged. "I don't know."

Snape's lips curled into a vicious sneer. "I see fame has not risen any expectations in you to apply yourself, Potter," he said silkily. "Let us try again, Potter. Where would you find a bezoar?"

Heinrich, absently scrawling the answers onto his parchment, snorted softly when the disgruntled mutter of "I don't know" reached his ears once more. Charles _should_ know, truthfully, seeing as Lily had reviewed Potions with the boy a month before the term was due to begin. Flipping to the first page of _Magical Drafts and Potions, _he tunes away the interrogation that was occurring when a sharp clearing of a throat forced his attention away from the footnote.

"Heinrich Potter," drawled Snape, his lips crawling into a sneer. "Surely you, at the very least, thought to come prepared. It would be such a _shame_ if you both proved to be incompetent."

Heinrich sighed. "Asphodel and wormwood infused create a powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a calculus or concretion found in the stomach of a goat which when ingest can remedy most common poisons."

Snape's eyebrows flicked upwards momentarily in surprise. The others, each looking at Heinrich as if he had suddenly sported three heads. Resuming his stern mask, Snape quizzed. "And what, Potter, is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"There is no difference," answered Heinrich. "They are the same plant and go under the same name of aconite."

"Indeed," replied Snape. "Twenty points to Slytherin."

The Gryffindors shifted with unrest and glared at both Snape and Heinrich, each grumbling at one form of unfairness or another. By the time the class itself had already ended the Gryffindors were livid at the loss of fifty points, a damaged cauldron, and one of their own being sent to Hospital Wing with a case of violent boils. Heinrich was the last to exit the potions classroom, and as he was leaving the watchful Snape behind him, he came to a stop to see the Gryffindor girl – Granger, Snape had called her –, gathering her supplies from off the cobbled ground. He had no reason to stop and help her, polite as it would have been, because she had no connection or value to him. Still, seeing the tears prickling the edges of her eyes made him _uncomfortable_, surprisingly.

"Are you all right?' he asked softly, bending to retrieve her scattered textbooks into one hand.

"Oh," she squeaked, wiping her eyes hastily. "Yes, I'm fine. Just tripped."

She lies, but he will not question her further. With the smallest smile he could muster, Heinrich helped her lightly to her feet and deposited the books into her hand. "You should be more careful, Miss – "

"Hermione," she supplied with a smile and blush. "Hermione Granger."

"Granger," Heinrich finished. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Heinrich. Heinrich Potter."

She nods, putting her books away with some difficulty. "Thank you again for your help."

"Of course."

That interaction, whilst brief, left him feeling quite unlike himself. He did no willingly converse, or speak at all, with others for more than a few seconds; and even those words were vague and short. But he had not only spoken to but helped the girl. He may have to rethink his prior impressions she had given off. After all, as a Gryffindor, she had access to things and people he would not. Maybe she _could_ be of use. For now, anyway.

**[. . . .]**

_September 20, 1991 _

The weeks of September drew to a close, the season of heat succumbing to the presence of arising fall. In those days Heinrich had gathered numerous observations within his own household and that of the remaining three. For instance in Slytherin the play and hunger for power was not a system primarily based on blood purity and wealth alone; no many took to using the political influences of their family, exchanging information and associating with those of higher status. Like Law – though young, already the Prefect seemed to have weaved himself a seat as the unannounced King of Slytherin; a right often reserved only for an Eighth year male.

Currently, aside from the occasional association he had with Zabini, Heinrich made neither friends nor enemies in any of the houses. Frequently, in the hours in which homework had been completed and books left little to no interest to him, Heinrich found his thoughts straying into dangerous territory. His fingers, absently, would brush the hidden bracelet and he would think of the effects it would have on those around him once it had been removed. They would fear him; they would tremble like Lily and James, they would cry and break before his eyes and then, only then would they know that he was their better. But, alas, he wanted to conquer them by a different means.

So lost in his thoughts that morning that Heinrich gave no notice to the seats beside him being occupied. It was only when his name was called did he take heed of the girls on either side of him. Daphne Greengrass, a girl with a mass of golden curls and pale blue eyes, sat to his left. His right was taken by Tracey Davis, a brunet with brown eyes and permanent expression of distaste on her face.

"Greengrass, Davis," he replied nonchalantly.

"We have an offer for you, Potter," began Greengrass, her clipped voice grating to his eyes. "You are undoubtedly the only talented person in all our classes thus far, especially in Charms and Transfiguration. I, as I'm sure you've noticed, have trouble in Transfiguration particularly. Davis, here, needs help in Charms. If you will tutor us in both fields we'll provide you with anything of your choice as long as it reasonable." She finished, both girls waiting expectantly for his answer.

"As you wish," agreed Heinrich, both girls' shoulders lowering with a relief. "When I have thought of what it is I want from you both, you'll be informed. Until then, our study sessions will be held in the library on Fridays at eight."

Davis frowned. "Why not sooner?"

"I have my own work to complete, Davis," stated Heinrich simply. He gathered his things. "A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Greengrass, Davis."

As he made to leave the Great Hall, Heinrich was stopped at the threshold by a bright face Charles. He almost wished the boy would return to pretending he did not existed. With his usual goons adorned on either side of him, Charles raised himself to a rigid posture, wanting to appear more intimidating. It was a valiant attempt, really, but Heinrich remained incurious as to what exactly his sibling would want. "You are blocking the entrance, little brother," he says. "Move."

Charles stiffened and narrowed his eyes. "I need to talk to you."

"There is nothing you have to say that I will find worth hearing," countered Heinrich.

"Don't talk to him like that you slimy Slytherin – "Weasley began in a high pitched squawk of anger.

Charles waved him down. "Ron, stop," he sighed. "Harry's always been like this. Weird and stubborn." He pursued his lips and addressed Heinrich once more. "We need to talk. It's important."

"I will _attempt _to make time for you at some point," offered Heinrich. "For now, however, I have prior occupations." Crooking a finger to the side Heinrich a dismissive look trio over his shoulder, the Gryffindors gasping as they were unceremoniously push to the side by an unseen force. They toppled over each other, gathering a round of laughter from the surrounding students. As he walked up the stairs, Heinrich distantly heard the cry of "I'm going to tell Dad!"

Defense Against the Dark Arts was by far the worst of all the classes Heinrich sat through. Their instructor, Quirrell, was not less but a stuttering mass of anxiety with a fear for his own shadow. All in all the man was a laugh. But Heinrich suspicions of the man, for there was _something_ off about him. Once, during the end of the lesson he had heard the man muttering to himself; muttering in a clear, eloquently strung sentence. That and for each second their eyes would meet pinpricks of pain would blossom near Heinrich's heart. Presently the nervous man was rifling through the mess of paperwork strewn along his desk, mumbling to himself. Briefly he looked up when Heinrich entered the room and sat down and held the boys gaze.

It was then that he saw it, the flash of red in the watery blue eyes.

It was a wonder how he maintained a polite, subdued expression when he had witnesses a phenomenon that geared his mind to bring forth more questions. Gradually, his suspicions of the man were proving to be accurate. Quirrell was not whom he claimed to be. Stranger even was the queer expression the man wore as he gazed at Heinrich, as if he was attempting to unravel the boy's secrets; secrets that not even Heinrich himself was not fully aware of. He looks away, pale fingers rapping the edge of his desk.

Heinrich did not bother to listen to the stuttering lesson of that day, jotting away his own notes as the rest of the class strained to understand what Quirrell was trying to say. The hour bypassed his notice and it was only by the light tap to his shoulder by Zabini that Heinrich removed his eyes from the lengthy sheet of parchment to Quirrell himself who stood inches from his desk. The rest of the students filed out of the room, the last closing the door behind them. Heinrich, slowly, gathered his things and began to place them away. He had a study hall for the next hour, then the first flying lesson of the year. He did particularly have a taste of Quidditch or broom riding for that matter. If anything the sport itself was a waste of time he could put to better use elsewhere.

"Mr. Potter," called Quirrell as he was crossing toward the door. "Please, have a seat."

Heinrich stops, hand outstretched for the door handle. It returns to his side, and he faces the turban-wrapped man. Those eyes were flecked with crimson; and they bore into his own with a cruel intelligence. Heinrich's sits in front of the man, hands folded atop the desk. "Have I done something wrong, Sir?"

Quirrell did not speak for the longest of time, his eyes never leaving Heinrich's. Even without seeing a wand, Heinrich felt the pulse of magic in the room. It took him a minute to realize that the Professor had spelled the room for privacy. "Mr. Potter, your lack of attention during my lessons worries me," the man started, his voice low and hissing. "It…upsets me, really."

"My apologies, Professor," Heinrich said. "It is difficult to understand what it is you are explaining to us for that day that I had taken to doing an independent studying of the subject on my own." He paused, trying for a smile that should have conveyed some form of innocence, but it faltered midway. "Though I do wonder about you, Professor. For someone who is known to stutter throughout the term, your sudden lack of speech impediment is…surprising."

Quirrell bared his teeth in a smirk. "You have been watching me."

"Watching? No. I merely observed that girth of difference you possess outside of the company of others, or when you think none are listening," explained Heinrich. His eyes bleed with darkness. "It makes me wonder, Sir, if you are whom you proclaim to be."

"You think that I am fraud."

"I think you are man who lies."

**[. . . .]**

That evening was balmy, the cool of fall yet to come and the air ringing with the enthusiasm of the first years. The Gryffindors, loudest of the bunch, claimed to possess the greatest skills when it came to being on a broom. Even Malfoy, to Heinrich's exasperation, was reciting all the reasons as to why one's status and connections was a necessity should they wish to gain a spot on the Quidditch field. It was only Heinrich himself, Granger and Longbottom whom seemed disinterested in the whole affair. Granger, it seemed, had been crying again. Heinrich did not pity the girl, but he was well aware of her friendless status and the scorn she faced from her own housemates. Children, he had learned early on, are cruel creatures. Granger, sniffing, looks up at him with wide eyes and he offers her a smile. Tentatively, she moves closer to him.

"H-hi, Heinrich," she greeted him, smiling tightly.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Heinrich replies. "May I ask why you have been crying?"

"I – I um, well – "

"Charles – Charles said that she was a know it all and that no one likes her," stammered Longbottom.

Granger blushes hotly and Longbottom has enough priority to look ashamed. Heinrich, all too aware of the attention they were gathering, lowered his voice so only they may hear his words. "I apologize for my brother, Miss Granger. Charles was raised to believe he could do no wrong and his arrogance precedes that of a stubborn Hippogriff."

Granger and Longbottom laugh. "Hein-Heinrich's right, Hermione," added Longbottom, patting her shoulder gently. "Charles is a right pain and rude."

"Precisely," agreed Heinrich. "It's better to not listen to a word he says at all."

"Thank you," she said, sighing and smiling a little more freely.

Giving a slight nod, Heinrich stepped into line beside Zabini. The black Slytherin cocked his head to Granger and Longbottom, then back onto Heinrich. "Getting chummy with the Gryffindors, Potter?" he drawled, and Malfoy snapped his eyes onto the pair.

"I have my reasons," said Heinrich, and in a hushed whisper that Malfoy strained to hear, "And they their uses."

Zabini's eyebrows lifted towards his hairline, and he glanced once more to the two Gryffindors in question. Granger shot him a startled, wary eyes before focusing onto Madam Hooch. Her introduction was simple and to the point of the class. Seconds after she had finished she instructs them to command their brooms into their open hand. Heinrich's leapt into his hand, the wood chipped and caked with years of usage beneath his fingers. When all students had a broom in hand, Hooch had begun to explain how to properly mount and grip one's broom when Longbottom gave a horrified shriek.

The boy was a hazard to himself, Heinrich thought with faint amusement as the boys broom bucked and kicked in the air, trying to dislodge the child. Eventually it succeeds and Longbottom falls, at best, fifteen feet from the air. He drops to the ground with a sickening crunch, a sure sign of bone shattered beneath the force of the fall and he bawls loudly. Hooch, after firmly promising punishment to any who dared to mount their brooms whilst she was away, carried Longbottom off to the infirmary.

"Did you see the look on the great lards face?" laughed Malfoy and he bends forward to retrieve whatever had been dropped near Longbottom's discarded broom. "Looks like Longbottom dropped his Remembrall. Useless device, really." He tossed it into the air a couple of times. "Maybe I should leave it somewhere for him to find – that is if he remembers he lost it to begin with."

"Give it back, Malfoy," demanded Charles.

"I think not," scoffed Malfoy. "I should do the useless lard a favor and destroy it for him. Or maybe throw it into a tree." He sighed, as if the many options offered to him were too great to choose from.

"I said give it up!" hollered Charles.

Heinrich closed his eyes, mentally counting all the reasons as to why he should refrain from involving himself in such a pointless squabble. A pointless, gradating squabble. He opens his eyes and steps forward. "Malfoy," he says, tone noncommittal and neutral. "Return the Remembrall."

"And why would I do such a thing?" Malfoy snarled.

"Because Longbottom is Scion and Lord Apparent to the Longbottom household," Heinrich supplied. "He may be physically and magically…deficient, but he is still a Lord and holds a political influence."

Only the most observant could see the process of thought in Malfoy Heir's eyes. Heinrich, hand outstretched, accepted the device from the obviously displeased blonde. Childish as he behaved, Malfoy was a Pureblood and to them Power, Blood and Influence carried heavy weight. Charles, glowering at Heinrich attempted to relieve him of the device and Heinrich steps away from the advance, causing his sibling to fall face first to the ground. Stepping over the disgruntled boy, Heinrich extends his hand to Granger.

"Please give Longbottom Scion Malfoy's regards," he said. "And wish him a quick return to health."

Granger nods quickly, holding the Remembrall close to her chest as Heinrich returns to the circle of Slytherin students. Malfoy appeared thoughtful, as if Heinrich had shown an aspect of himself he had not seen before. The distrust and distaste for him was still there, but that alone Heinrich paid no mind too. Draco Malfoy, while a nuisance, may prove to become an assist; or a hindrance that would need to be dealt with.

**[. . . . ]**

_Harry,_

_Your Mother and I looked the other way when you choose to remain in Slytherin. _

_Although we are indeed disappointed and confused. A child of such a light family_

_should be ashamed to be sent into the house notable for creating dark wizard, _

_and we at least expect you to uphold the Potter family name there and not stray_

_from our ideals. Why can you not be like your brother? Already Charles is on the_

_right path. Being sorted into Gryffindor, has set him on a fresh path to being a leader_

_to the light side, and remains to be the only source of pride for our family. _

_We received word from Charles of your refusal to speak to him, and of your _

_Interactions with those Slytherin's during flying lessons. Not only does this concern us, _

_but you are quick to come to the aid of a Malfoy when he is in the wrong. _

Do not_ be a barrier to Charles growth. You have stayed away from sight well enough_

_when you were home, and your recent behavior has been a cause of great disturbance _

_for your Mother and I. You will behave yourself and cease being such a disgrace._

_Lily and James Potter_

The letter is consumed by flames, withering into soot that sits in his hands. Time and time again they would express their _happiness_ and _pride_ in Charles and insinuate Heinrich as a purulent child who must be scolded at every turn. Why he was seen as an inferior to his brother; why he could not be recognized and appreciated. Yet the worst of all betrayals would come when he was labeled as incompetent and a Squib. _Him_, the one who had learned to control his magic at a tender age of four. _He_, who could manipulate the objects and animals around him. _He_, who studied and worked so hard to impress his parents only to be cast aside and proclaimed _worthless._

Their words were cutting, monstrous and bled his heart whatever affection he held for them. They who took no notice of him even if he were to stand before him; they who did not give him gifts in spite of sharing a birth date with the so-called _Savior_; they who belittled and taunted, and little by little a cold, hard, poisonous hate filled his once pure heart.

Hate for his brother, hate for his parents, hate for the world, hate for _everyone_.

And from that moment on, redemption was nonexistent to the boy known as Heinrich Potter. They would all rue the day they labeled him as a _disgrace_. Clenching his fist, his magic tasting the air and the palpable anger that exuded from him, in the throes of fury Heinrich made a vow upon his blood that he would never again be viewed an inferior to any.


End file.
